


NSFW Works

by PervyMaiden (BlushingMaidenMood)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Rough Oral Sex, Sex, Sexual Interfacing, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingMaidenMood/pseuds/PervyMaiden
Summary: Only myself, getting all those Ideas out of my head.Its Sex, rough, gentle, whatever.Bot/Bot or Human/Bot or more...Open for requests.I will have two to three own OC's instead of Y/N, hope you will like it regardless.
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

Perceptor rubbed his helm, trying to get rid of the stress coding invading his processor and to aleviate some of the fritzing connections inside his helm.  
There was so much to do, so many things to build, so many bots to supervise cough Wheeljack cough and so many experiments to document.  
His work just never seemed done.

This was the fifth Nightcycle he would be working through, the fifth Nightcycle of stress and wear.  
It was making him... more like Wheeljack. Two of his last experiments had blown up around his audials, coating his frame in a mixture of energon and saccharose.

Sticky stuff he would get rid off under the washracks, whenever he would find the time to go into one that is.

He wanted to groan as he heard the lab doors unseal again.  
Who, in their right mind, would enter the Lab at this time of Night Cycle?  
His demeanour had scared everyone away already for this day.

„Hey, Percy! Nice to see you are still here! Just the mech I wanted to see!“  
Perceptor perked up, his tired optics falling on the lithe mech walking over to him, two cubes of energon in his servos.

„It is good to see you, how can I help you?“  
„I think its more of, how can I help YOU! Percy, you look like shit, please excuse the human idiom.“  
Perceptor chuckles, taking the cube held out to him.  
His last energon is decorating his chassis, so that cube is the right thing he needs.  
„Thank you.“

Perceptor slowly sips his cube, optics trailing the lithe mech as he looks around his lab, poking some of the experiments still on the work table.  
„Percy. When was the last time you recharged? Or got a tour through the washracks?“

The other mech saunters over, blue optics wandering all over Perceptors frame, leaving a trail of warmth behi-  
Perceptor blinks slowly, staring at the cube of energon. Where had that come from?  
Yes, the other mech was surely beautiful to look at, his personality was warm and caring, and yes Perceptor **had** thought about getting intimate with this mech in more than one sleep cycle.

The lack of recharge must be getting to him.  
He takes another sip, a bigger one this time.

„It is... a few cycles ago. I assure you as soon as I can, I will be taking a shower. This saccharoseand energon mix is very sticky and I don't like it on my frame.“

„Percy.. You know what?“  
Perceptor shakes his helm, sitting the empty cube aside.

„Percy. I am botnapping you. To the washracks!“

Perceptor does not even has the time to protest before warm servos have him by the shoulders, walking him over to the Washracks in the Lab.  
„I assure you, you really don't ha-“  
„Percy, shush. I want to.“  
And the touch does linger, just a little bit, pushing him under one showerhead.  
Perceptor can't fully fight the whine escaping him, hoping against anything that the now raining water will mask it. 

Although, he doesn't think so as he sees those beautiful blue optics widen.  
„Percy?“ the mechs voice is small but with something warm underlying.  
„I am.. merely stressed. Please ignore me.“  
A mischievous glint sparked in the other mechs optics.

„Stressed?“ he purred, one servo still on Perceptors shoulder, the other splaying on the scientists thigh, close to his panel.  
Perceptor bit his lip harshly to refrain from moaning aloud.

The other mech slowly goes to his knees, both servos now splayed on those delicious looking thighs, mouthing soft and hot kisses along the seams, up up up until those lips met their destination.  
The modesty panel in between his thighs.

„Wha-!“ his words can't even fall fully from his lip. The mech is kneeling in between his legs now, mouthing his panel almost desperately and Perceptor can't... he won't---

His panel slides open, half pressurized spike slipping into a waiting mouth.  
The moan from the mech under him is sounding perverse, halfway strangled by his rapidly engorging spike. Both of his servos find his helm, pressing gently on it.  
All rational thought has lef-

The beautiful creature beneath him starts sucking, mouth working its way up and down his spike slowly, one servo dipping into his pulsating and damp valve, curling at the deepest point they go, scraping over nodes.  
His mouth is working wonders, teeth running gently but firmly over the ridges all along Perceptors spike.  
He keens, frame curling over the mech in between his thighs, his legs shaking. The hot rain is not helping any right now, its warming his frame even more.

The minx starts purring, his chassis and his glossa carrying the vibrations over to the heavy spike in their mouth. As he is about to be three thirds down the spike, he let's his teeths graze softly over the the sensitive organ. When his helm bobs up again, he stops to include one more step into his move set, he now pulls off completely and licks deftly over the tip of the spike. Moaning when he catches a single, tasty drop. And then his helm bobs down again to start the cycle anew. 

Perceptor is dying, close to offlining from this agile glossa and those deliciously agonizing teeth.  
And it had been so long.  
So soo long.

„Please!“ he whimpers, servos pressing harsher against the Minxes helm.  
A small servo pushes into his valve, Perceptors jaw falling down, his optics flickering wildly as the servo, a whole fricking servo inside his valve, starts moving, making a fist, rotating, catching his nodes.

„Primus! I-!“  
It had been far too long.  
With a strangled cry, shaking legs and a thrown back helm, he looses the fight.  
His spike pulsates and he pushes the helm in his servos down on it, sinking into the warm intake as far as he can go, unloading his fluids down that throat.  
And even though the Minx sounds more strangled than ever before, he is still sucking at him, whining under Perceptors servos for more.

Perceptor moans as his spike pops free. Knees buckling under him he sinks onto the wet floor, staring dazed at the mech leaning over him now and rubbing his own valve, obviously in need.

„That is one way to destress me.“ he murmurs, stretching his legs and tugging the Minx into his lap, his spike already half erect again and poking at that dripping valve.

„Let me help you out, Love.“  
Perceptors day had just taken a turn for the better.


	2. We should stop meeting like that, but -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz is a very caring commander of Black Ops.   
> He makes very sure that all his Underlings are in good conditions when coming back from a mission.
> 
> (Jazz x Zerostep [OC])

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter.  
> Another mood.
> 
> I really love Jazz.
> 
> My OC Zerostep, option one to choose from

It had been a few weeks, not really much time atr all for any bot, but oh so long for a commander of Black-Ops to not hear anything from one of his underlings.  
Even longer if the underling in question was sent into a Decepticon stronghold to gather vital information. Or at least he hoped it would be vital information about troop strength and movements.   
They, the Autobots, needed that information. They needed it bad, the last few skirmishes spoke of a traitor or spy an their own ranks, and maybe, just maybe his Underling would dig up that little juicy tidbit for Jazz.

The Autobot command wanted the information.  
Jazz wanted his Underling back, in one piece if possible.

So it was with not much thought that the suave mech with the visor fled the Officers meeting after receiving an alert on his private Com-line with a fitting and correct passphrase.

It was with a slow but hurried walk that he finally reached his office, the second one, that one not many bots even knew about, opened the door and slipped into the darkness behind the doorframe, visor instantly changing to a setting of vision for him to see.

„Hey ya mech. Long time no see!“ he says as he saunters over slowly, optics roving over the dented and scratched, dark colored frame and the yellow optics blinking online in the dark.  
For taking a few weeks longer than expected or needed, Zerostep didn't look as bad.

Well, to get on with the show.  
This Underling had a special way to get calmed down and paid for his missions.

Zerostep was one of the most touch starved mechs in existence.

And Jazz was, just maybe, taking advantage of that sometimes.   
More so when time were full of stress and anxiety, like now.

As soon as Jazz sat on his own chair, he opened his arms and spread his legs slightly for a better seating arrangement, chair a bit pushed back from his desk.  
„Come here. Tell me about your mission.“ he rumbles, gesturing to the smaller mech, who instantly walks over to climb on that inviting lap, shaking frame pressing against Jazz own.

„We have to stop meeting like this. For information. But I love your destressing factor as much as your information gathering skill, Zero.“ Jazz murmurs, arms wrapping around the lithe mech on his lap, nosing against those delicate throat cables.

Zerostep, like the good mech he is, opens his mouth to start his report, slowly and haltingly in a dual toned, twanging voice and Jazz will recap later, but right now, he has more pressing need for some destressing.

His arms tug the smaller mech closer, teeth gently grazing over the throat cables, nipping some and biting down on others, servos roaming over his back plating, digits tugging on the thorns imbedded into the Information Gatherers back.

Jazz legs spread further, opening the softly groaning and panting mechs legs right with him, warming plating pressed against his own cool one.   
„Say something if you don't want it.“ he mumbles, biting into cabling again and tugging it harshly.  
Zerostep can only force a soft whimpering moan from his vocals, which Jazz takes as a go ahead.  
Growling Jazz bites down again, one servo wandering around the shivering frame on his lap, stroking over the heating interface panel situated right above his own.  
He is not in the mood for foreplay, not in the mood to be nice and slow.

His clawed digits scrape over the sensitive panel, eleiciting a strangled sounding moan from Zerostep, who is throwing his helm back now, shoulders shaking. With a slick sliding sound, the privacy panel slides open fully, Jazz's claws gently scratching the emerging, half pressurized spike with the single line of green biolights.

„Jazz!“ Zero moans, trying to move his hips, but Jazz single servo is enough to hold the squirming mech in place, his stroking servo, dancing down the spike to plunge his digits into that warm and wet valve.

Zero's frame freezes, vents stuttering and hips locking in place, calipers flittering around curling and scratching, moving and rotating digits, pumping in and out in a merciless rhythm.

Purring, Jazz stands up, leaning the quivering mech on his workdesk, servos now holding onto the legs and setting them over his shoulders, so he has all the access he needs.  
Jazz, grinning in the dark, opens his own panel, spike pressurizing and positioned just at the rim of the wet and weeping valve.

„Oh, so needy? Don't worry, your commander will take good care of you.“  
Without waiting for a single second or even a noise from the mech splayed open in front of him, Jazz thursts his hips forwards, heavy spike sinking into the channel of his Underling.   
Its tight and hot and exactly what Jazz needs.  
He is moving with precision, fast thrusts in as deep as he can go, hitting the ceiling node with every single move, but drawing out agonizingly slow, dragging his spike over all the little bundles of nerves he can, sometimes even moving in a few inches again to rub his ridged spike over and over again on specific nodes.

He loves it, the deep whimpers and his name falling from Zeros lips like a prayer to Primus, the callipers tugging and touching his spike, the soft warm cables writhing inside that tight and hot channel, the squelching sounds as he pistons into the mess of a mech on his workdesk over and over again.   
He is moaning and holding Zero pinned with one servo on his abdominal plating. It wouldn't surprise him if Zero would be left with some very telling dents in his plates after that.  
His free servo is wrapped around the twitching spike, moving in tandem with his own thrusts edging the poor whimperin Information Gatherer on even more, not to talk about himself.

Seeing, and recording, this was exhilarating. He was causing that reaction, his spike buried deep inside that wet heat, hitting the ceiling node and trying to push further. With every thrust the cables inside the valve are getting closer, tightening the channel, holding onto Jazz spike.

And it has been so long. And Zerostep so willing to give.  
But Jazz is not merciful.  
Not by a long shot.

As Zerostep screams out his first overload, digits scratching over Jazz workdesk for purchase and fluids gushing down his still straining spike and splattering his thighs, Jazz smirks.

This will be a long night.  
And he will be having so much fun.


	3. A Medics Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pharma had a very long day.  
> Wheeljack just wants to help.

Normally he would be standing, walking around his office, wings flicking and twitching only slightly with every step he takes. It helps him think, helps him organize himself.  
Normally.  
  
But now he is sitting behind his massive workdesk. Massive in that regard, that he can even stretch his long slender legs out under it to get some relaxation, and still no one would be able to see because the desk is closed on three sides.  
  
Leaned back in his chair, legs stretched under the desk, both servos in his lap and helm thrown back. The picture of an overworked medical jet trying to get some rest before the next catastrophe he would have to solve.  
  
 _Wheeljack grins, his engine silent as he sits between those thighs, sensitive digits running over plating, dipping into seams and stroking cables he can reach, travelling slowly after his glossa as he licks his way up to the medijets abdominal plating.  
  
Exploring Pharma like this was always way more fun than only using his servos and digits.   
He was already on it for more than half an hour, sucking, nipping and lapping first the left leg upwards until he got to the privacy plate in between Pharmas legs, then changing to the right leg.  
  
_Pharmas vents were a bit faster than normal, servos wringing gently in his lap and a soft blue hue barely staining his faceplates.   
„Oh, you greedy little Scientist.“ he murmured, optics offline and wings fluttering just a little bit.  
  
 _Instead of making a sound, the mentioned Scientist finally laps over the panel, hot and wet. The thighs around him are quivering, pressing against his shoulders and trying to hold him in place. Not that the Scientist wants to be anywhere else right now. With barely a sound the privacy panel slides open, already halfway pressurized spike emerging only to be instantly enveloped with Wheeljacks scarred lips, glossa running down to the base of the heavy spike.  
  
_ Pharmas upper frame twitches, servos stroking over the helm in between his thighs, pressing Wheeljack closer, encouraging him without words to -  
  
„Pharma, Sir? I have the reports you wanted.“ A chipper voice sounds seconds before the heavy door, which the Medijet had not locked, opens to admit a small but heavy built Grounder Nurse inside, blue optics sparkling and waving around a few Datapads.  
  
Pharmas helm, against instinct, falls slowly forwards, blue hue gone from his cheeks and optics online. He is squinting at the closing in Nurse, both servos coming to settle on the workdesk, upper frame leaning forwards.  
„Its my break. That couldn't wait?“  
He has to concentrate, digits of one servo tapping against the desk.  
  
 _Wheeljack wants to purr in that moment, mouth sinking down further on Pharmas delicious spike, taking it as far as he can, glossa wrapping around the weaping and sensitive organ, lapping up every single droplet of transfluid that is escaping the medijet.  
One servo moves down, following a seam right to the edge of the open valve, digits gently and carefully exploring the rim, rubbing and stroking all way round until he can get the softer little nub of a node between two knuckles, and twists.  
  
_Pharma inhales deeply, optics shuttering once as he tilts his helm to the side, wings hiking up and dentae grinding.  
„I am sorry Sir. But it really can't wait. We need a few signatures before we can order new materials.“ The Nurse does not sound sorry in anyway.  
Pharma sighs, grabbing the small mountain of Datapads, the second servo coming up to hold up his helm, and conveniently shadowing his faceplates.  
  
 _He is sucking now, still silent as he moves up and down that heavy and twitching Spike. He moves up slowly, glossa exploring all of the sensitive wiring and plates, catching more drops of heavenly tasting transfluid. When the tip is barely inside his mouth, he sinks down again, even slower with his denta grazing over the Spike.  
His digits of the free servo finally find their way to the wet and twitching valve, two digits plunging right in to his knuckles, scissoring the hot channel and stimulating tiny nodes all along the inner walls.  
  
_One servo splays on the desk, digits thrumming over and over again as he concentrates on signing and skimming the Datapads the still chattering Nurse has brought him. He won't be able to tell what they were talking about, but he wouldn't be able to even if he wasnt so.... distracted.  
  
 _Three digits inside the hot and wet valve, pumping in and out, going deeper with every movement, scratching softly over nodes every time he pulls his digits out completely only to plunge them right back in. He is not gentle about it anymore. He is stimulating the Medijet as much as possible.  
His denta scrape over the tip of Pharmas spike, his glossa lapping right over the slit over and over, before he sinks down again, sucking harshly and in uneven intervalls.  
  
_„This looks alright so far.“ Pharma murmurs, trying to hide the soft blush that wants to stain his faceplates again. He can feel his valve pulsing, digits pushing and prodding right inside, pushing his spark rate up. The wet heat around his Spike is not making it easier. And oh how he wants to grab the Scientists helm, hold him still and just take that mouth as deep and hard as he -  
  
„Sir? Are you... Are you alright?“ And why was the Nurse still here? Hadn't he.. Ah, yes. A few more signatures required.   
Pharma lets one servo drop on his thigh, snaking it carefully along until his sensitive digits wrap around the distinctive hemfins of the Minx between his legs. Legs which he wants to settle over the Scientist shoulders to -  
„Yes I am quite alright. I may need a bit of a longer break.“  
  
 _Wheeljack nuzzles into the servo on his helmfin, mouth still heavily sucking and pleasuring the twitching and straining spike, fluids dripping down his chins by now. Not only his, but also Pharmas transfluid.  
His free servo lets up from the harshly rubbed outer node to catch the medics servo, digits interlacing and spreading the servo open. The Scientist has a few tricks. One of them is splitting his digits into two, so that he can massage and stimulate the servo he is holding.  
The digits inside Pharmas valve split as well, filling it quite well with now all of them inside and pushing deeper and deeper with every movement.  
His wrist is bordering the rim now, nearly silent slick noises as he pushes in and pulls out, going for the ceiling node.  
  
_He can't help the twitching of his wings, the soft blush on his faceplates or the whine he is fighting his hardest not to release. His optics are flickering.  
„Oh Primus. Sir, you really shouldnt do any double shifts in the near future. Medical Genius you may be, but even you need to rest!“ The Nurse sounds honestly appalled at his current status.  
If only she knew.  
  
„Let me rest then, please.“  
  
 _He finally buttons out, spike as far down his throat as he can manage, his scarred lips stretching to accomodate the intrusion going down his throat. His glossa is running all over frantically.  
  
_ „Yes Sir. You really don't look good. Please fuel soon, Sir. Maybe some of the coolant too.“  
  
 _His digtis wrap around the medics own, tugging and sending small shocks, his second trick, all over the joints.  
  
_ „I will. Now out.“ His voice hitches minutely as he hands over the Datapads again, his servo shaking only a bit.

_He has reached the ceiling node, digits prodding harshly agianst it, tweaking it and rubbing along the walls. Only to pull back out to push right back in and as deep as he can, servo rotating while doing so.  
He can feel the medijet clench around him.  
  
He is grinning._

„Yes Sir.“ The Nurse, still chipper, nearly skips out of his office.   
The door closes with a soft his.  
  
Moaning into his free servo, Pharma leans back again, self control gone as he pushes his hips forwards and against the Scientists faceplates, charge building finally as he hasn't has to fight against it anymore.  
  
With a deep and drawn out moan he overloads, Wheeljack starts swallowing like the good needy Scientist he is, drinking down the hot and heavy load of transfluid that escapes the bothered mech.  
His valve is trapping and clenching around the servo as it drags all along his nodes, his servo shaking in Wheeljacks hold as the overstimulated appendage doesn't even react anymore to his will.  
  
His overload is drawn out, like his moan.  
And he sags into his chair as Wheeljack laps the last drops from his flattening spike, flickering optics searching for the mirth and lust filled ones of the Scientist.  
  
„I hope you know what you brought over yourself.“  
  
 _Wheeljack smiles, transfluid dripping down his chin and onto his heaving chassis._


	4. Adrenaline Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kup helps Bluestreak come down from Adrenaline

Adrenaline, or the non organic equivalent of it, is one of the best and the worst things that will be open to you when in war.  
Or a fight. A skirmish, or battle or just a stressfull situation.  
It will help you, keep you sharp and ready to tackle anything, it will keep you alive and mostly healthy. You are on top of the world, the king of the Universe.

Its good for you.

But not if you can't get it out of your system, when you are hyped to kingdom come, ready for anything and nothing happens. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.  
Then you have a problem. You get jittery, paranoid, twitchy.  
Or you can be experienced enough to guide that energy into something else.

And if you know the signs, you can make some things very pleasurable.

Like Kup was doing, having caught the jittery and fast speaking Datsun to try to calm him down. Shooting Range didn't help, letting him run around didn't help either.  
And lets say, the images of making the mech stretch to get rid of his energy were just one of the points of pleasure that led to all of this.

Kup leans back on his seat, legs spread widely and a heavy smirk on his faceplates. His cigar is set down on the sidetable, forgotten for a few hours now as he focuses on the smaller, younger mech grinding into his lap, dripping hot and quivering valve gliding up and down against Kups spike, not taking him inside but stimulating his impressive length and girth.

It was not the first pause, or the last, Kup would „grant“ Bluestreak. A small mercy for the Sniper. For the good soldier. For following Orders.

_**Do not come. I forbid you to come until I allow you to overload.** _

One of his big servos is set on the grinding and panting, overheating, frame of the Sniper, guiding him along and helping him move. His own spike is straining to plunge back into the velvet heat and wetness of the messy sports car on top of him, but he has learned control over the years he served, can hold back his pleasure to prolong it, to revel in it.  
And to just enjoy this instances of closeness, of affection between brothers in arms. Mech in arms. Whatever.

His second servo is cupping the Snipers helm, forcing his thumb between those glistening lips and rubbing over the hot glossa, which is licking over his appendage with abandon. Kup can tilt the younger mechs helm with ease like that, enjoying the glazed over, dazed and lust filled optics immensely. All part of the experience.

“Suck it.” he rumbles deeply in his chassis, pushing two more digits into the wide open mouth, lips closing instantly around the thick digits, glossa swirling around and between, sucking and licking, a soft moan escaping him as Kup drags the Snipers dripping valve harder over his spike.  
Soft slick noises sound as his willing little Datsun squirts a little bit more fluids over the old mechs shaft, drenching it again in sticky transfluid.

The servo on the mechs frame shifts upwards to Bluestreaks neck, holding onto him and pushing him slowly down on the floor, plating roughly pressing against Kups own, stimulating, a small charge running between them, pushing the younger one down right between his legs. His digits still firmly lodged inside Blues mouth, playing with that hot and wet glossa. He is only slipping the dripping wet digits away when Blues knees settle on the floor.

“Lick.” is the only thing he says in his gravely voice, servo still on the Snipers neck, only barely needed to, not drag the other closer, but to stop the Praxian from literally suffocating between Kups thighs. Warm and wet, the younger mechs glossa laps eagerly all over Kups own dripping valve, slurping down any droplet of fluid he can catch, optics gazing dazedly up at the Wreckers frame, focusing as the older mech wraps his slick digits around his own spike, stroking forcefully up and down, rotating his grip all the way down.

Mewling, Bluestreak shuffles closer, teeth grazing over Kups valve rim, glossa diving in deep and curling over the nodes lining the mechs inner walls, licking furiously, optics riveted on the thick digits working over that even thicker spike, droplets of fluid running down, following the alight biolights.  
“Please...” the murmured plea falls nearly silently from Bluestreaks lips, neck and helm straining to move closer, glossa dancing over Kups outer node, trying to reach the tantalizing droplet coming closer and closer, but Kups hold is true and fírm, his rumble deep.

“Not yet. Come up.”

The Sniper nips his way up, glossa dipping again into the opened valve before kissing and nipping up abdominal plating, sinking his teeth into edges of platings, working his way back into the mechs lap, his own legs wrapping snugly around the older mechs waist.

“Remember, you are not allowed to overload until I say so.” Kup commands, both his servos now cupping and squeezing the Praxians aft and lifting him up, only to sink the moaning Sniper onto his spike in one go, thick shaft filling the smaller and tighter Bluestreak. The Praxians helm falls back, servos scrambling for something to hold on to, legs quivering and doorwings hitched as high as they go.

The first time this night, Bluestreak had leapt onto his spike, eagerly moving and bouncing on him, servos roaming Kups shoulders and chassis. He was not allowed to overload. Kup led him to his spike to lick clean.

The second time, the Praxian had been whimpering for release as he bounced on Kups thick shaft, biting at exposed neck cabling and scrambling for holds. He was not allowed to overload then either. Kup had brought the Sniper to his knees again, letting him cool-down while skillfully eating out the older mechs valve.

The third time the Sniper had been begging to overload, fluids gushing out of his filled and used valve, the spike unattended to and still weeping drops of fluids that mixed with the ones from his valve, both mixing and running down his thighs and also dropping and smearing over Kups legs and abdominal plating. Bluestreak had not been allowed to overload, leaving the Praxian a moaning and mewling mess as Kup had sat him between his legs again, using the glossa and open mouth of his willing partner to push his spike right into, holding the Snipers helm firm and thrusting into that obscenely wet mouth.

The fourth time, Kup had the overstimulated mech rubbing his hot and wet valve all over his spike, right were this tale began.  
And now he is using his own servos to move the poor mech, as Bluestreak is too overheated to do more than wiggle, twitch and fill his ship with the loudest moans the wordy Praxian can utter anymore, helplessly clinging to the older mechs frame while shaking, mixtures of mewls moans and pleads falling brokenly form his lips.  
Kup is moving the willing Praxian faster and faster, moving his own hips to meet those thrusts, rattling the smaller Snipers frame something fierce, getting him to cry out every time his spike hits the ceiling node of the tight valve.  
It feels so good.  
So warm.  
So wet.

And Kup revels in it, moaning along, but not overloading as the shivering and quivering walls of his Snipers channel press down around him.  
One servo lifts form the pert aft, gripping one doorwing in a firm hold.  
“Come for me.” And he tugs the doorwing.

Screaming in relief Bluestreak falls instantly into an overbearing overload, fluids running down Kups spike in thick and creamy rivers. Kup thrusts into him all the while, prolonging the overload of his partner, servos holding the arching Praxian in place, giving him no chance to get away.  
And its to hold onto him as Bluestreak sags, steam rising from his overstimulated and overheated frame.

Kup leans the others helm back, pressing a firm, open mouthed kiss to those abused lips.

“Don't think we are finished yet. You sports cars go fast and far and you are intense, but nothing beats an experienced partner.” He bites the Praxians neck, lifting him without problems and rolling them both over to land on the berth beside the seat he had been sitting on this whole time.  
One servo moves the shaking legs of Bluestreak, manipulating that pert aft in the air and spreading him wide open as he kneels behind him, thick spike twitching as it rubs over the slick and wet valve opening.

Kup smirks, both servos holding onto that small waist, holding Bluestreak up and pressing him against him, hilting his spike in one movement deep inside the wet, hot valve. And then the Oldtimer is moving. Fast, hard and at a punishing pace.

He will have so much fun this whole night.


	5. Body Worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft Dratchet Foreplay

It had been such a nice evening in Swerves bar. Loud and happy singing, exuberant story tellers, boisterous drunk mechs.  
And those last ones? Had proven to be a small problem for Drift and Ratchet, more so for the latter than the former.  
All evening long, mechs and femmes of different builds, but all young and vibrant, had come to the two mechas table in the corner to flock around Drift, admiring his colours, his cables, his smile and his demeanour. Ratchet had laughed it off the first two times, finding the stumped expression on his loved mechs faceplates more than telling enough. But the old medic had been getting quieter and quieter, leaning back into the shadows every time one or two new mechs came by to ask Drift for a “short hay play” or “tip sharing about frame care”.

So it was on a not so good mood, that the couple left their table, waving down Swerve to pay and then leave the establishment.  
Ratchets steps were heavy, more like a stomping walk instead of his more natural ground eating pace. Drift had no problems keeping up, helm tilted to the side and watching his disgruntled partner in thought, his engine lowly growling in his frame.

But he knew that Ratchet himself was deep in thought and if he would speak now, he would never get another answer than ‘I am fine, don’t ask such a silly thing’, so he was staying silent, waiting for the other to speak up.  
Which only happened after they left the more lively corridors and entered a seldom used one.

“Drift.” The Swordmechs audials twitch once at the hollow sound of his beloveds voice. Instead of vocalizing, he hums in response, coming to a stand as Ratchet does, turning to face him, faceplates dark and, dare he think it?, brooding.  
The medic seems to fight himself for a few minutes, just staring out of tired and resigned optics at the younger mech at his side.  
But finally, Ratchets shoulderplates square, his back stiffening and his gaze wandering away.

“Drift, can I ask you a question?”  
“You already did, but I would never forbid you from asking me anything.” No reaction, no twitch of lips or even a roll of that optics that still won’t look at him. Only a bit more of tense silence, only broken by the audible whirring sounds of a working machinery around them.

“You could be with anyone, but you ar-”  
“Yes, I could. But why would I want that?”

That, finally gets a reaction from the medic, helm swivelling around, bright optics focussed on the Swordsmech easy and warm smile.  
“Ratchet.” Drift steps closer, frame nearly touching his Medics frame.  
“Why would you think I would want anyone else? When I can have you?” Drifts voice lowers with every word he speaks, servos placed on the older mechs shoulders and walking him backwards to the wall.

“Drift? What do you think you are doing?”  
“If my words alone won’t be enough for you, then I will have to show you, don’t I?”  
“If you think that I will allow that in this corridor here, you have a thing coming fo-” The smirk on Drifts lips is probably the reason the medic stops talking, or the kiss, into which he is drawn.  
One of Drifts servos move, down an arm and then behind, opening the hallway closet door right behind Ratchet and waling the medic inside, closing the door behind them again and locking it.

“Would never even think about doing that in the hallways.” The dim lighting above shines down on both mechs, standing chassis to chassis, barely enough room inside for them to move more than a feet away from each other.  
And in the midst of cleaning solution, paint cans and repair supplies, there is one free wall, perfect for what Drift is intending to do.

Manoeuvring his Medic right against the free wall, Drift cups the others helm in his servos, thumbs stroking gently over cheeks and jawline.  
“Why would I love someone else, if my Spark belongs to yours? But to come back to my earlier statement, let me tell you what I love.”

He tilts Ratchets helm forwards, pressing a soft and warm kiss above both optics before pressing his own forehelm against the medics own.  
“I Love your Optics. Bright and looking for anything you can help others with. You never once really look for things for yourself. Always thoughtful and always trying to look out for everyone you hold dear.”

His hold changes, servos tilting Ratchets helm backwards, so that Drift can gaze warmly at him, his own nasal ridge nudging against the others. Humming softly, the Swordsmech moves, lips connecting into a chaste kiss.  
“I love your mouth. You speak the truth, even if it hurts, even if no one will want to listen to you. You do not stray.” Drift leans in for another kiss, this one more open mouthed, teeth nipping the button lip with more force, but not breaking any layer to draw energon.  
Ratchet sucks a deep breath, optics firmly focused on Drifts glinting one.  
“I also very much love, what you can do with that mouth of yours. I love kissing you, I Love biting you and not to forget-” his smile morphs into an impish smirk, “ - the feeling of your mouth around my spike or your glossa in my valve is something I treasure as well.”  
Leaning forwards just as the medic opens his mouth to speak, its easy for Drift to steal another kiss, his glossa invading the hot and wet cavern of Ratchets mouth. He can’t quite fight the soft moan that leaves him as glossas wrap around each other, engaging into a sensual dance of dominance, which none wins but both enjoy.

Letting his servos wander down Ratchets neck he settles them on the medics shoulders, following the lines of his Lovers jawline with nips and open mouthed kisses, down the throat where he could just NOT not lick, to finally nibble at the edges of Ratchets shoulders.  
“I Love your shoulders. You shoulder so much responsibility and weight, carry it alone as long as you can without wanting to bother anyone. You try to shove all others away, try to make them think that you don’t care, when you care far too much.” He nuzzles Ratchets right shoulder, servos stroking and scratching over the closest seams. “The pun was intended.” he murmurs against the plating, smiling when he can hear the soft scoff coming from the Medics vocalizer.

He can also feel the barely there shivers running over Ratchets frame.  
His optics never really leave his treasured medics faceplates, getting lost in the warm, astonished and wonder filled gaze as his own servos wander down, capturing both of the sensitive servos and bringing them to his opened lips. Pressing a tender kiss onto both palms, relishing in the full frame shiver and the soft moan it elicits from Ratchet, Drift smiles.  
“I love these Servos. They protect, they heal, they cover, they hold. They are dear to you and dear to me. You honour them, every single cycle, with a determination that I seldomly saw in others.” With each words, Drift kisses the tips of a digit. And after kissing every single digit tip? He draws the thumbs into his mouth, glossa lapping lazily while sucking on them, delighting in the sounds falling from the older medics vocalizer and the soft blush of energon staining that faceplates, and he can't not smile coyly up at him and nip.

The reflexive exhale is accompanied by curling digits, thumbs gliding over his glossa as he lets them go again to sink onto his knees.

“Drift...” Ratchets voice is deep and strained sounding, his servos shaking as he settles them onto the Swordsmech helm and stroking.  
Leaning into the soft touch, Drift hums, his own servos rubbing over the medics thighs, digits dipping into seams to play and tug at the cabling below the plates.

“Ratchet. Its not about the frame, the cabling, the alloys. Its about what lays behind all that.” He smirks up at Ratchet, right about the height of Ratchets privacy panels, one servo placed way up the chassis, knocking the plating over the spark casing.  
“If youd like, I can show you even better what I love about you.” 

Ratchets optics darken, hold on Drifts helm getting more firm. And with a tiny groan, his lower plating slinks open, loudly.  
Drifts mouth is open, eagerly waiting for the half pressurized spike to emerge and slide into his cavern, optics flickering.  
His glossa roams over the tiny ridges, mapping every bump, every change in warmth when his glossa meets biolights. His free servo, the one not staying right on top of Ratchets spark, strokes over the rims of the medics valve, teasingly dipping into the hidden channel, curling digits and tugging, rubbing over the first inner nodes.  
The soft moaning sounds are heaven for Drift, only edging him on to go deeper, let that spike sink down his throat until his nasal ridge bumps against abominal plating, digits plunging deeper with every curl, so hat the shaking grip on his helm -

“You know, when Red Alert commed me to gather up my husbands, I had really not thought of getting such a show.”

Drift will never live it down, choking on Ratchets spike, without it even being halfway down his throat as he was bobbing his helm at that time.

“Maybe we could continue that in a room, where 3 mechs have space?”  
Rodimus smirk could have set mechs on fire.

So could Ratchets stare.  
And Drifts cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Transformers is not mine.  
> It belongs to Hasbro, Paramount Pictures and a few other geniuses.
> 
> I am NOT making money with it.  
> Only writing for my own amusement.


End file.
